The Plight of Penguins


Aimlessly we are marching towards the sea.
Forcing luck, we say we’re bound to blue skies.
We’re told there’s no ocean to hear our plea,
Vehemently we strain our wings to fly.
Skies above: the opposite of shelter.
What’s left blue, now grey; a common constant.
“At least no rain!” says snow in mock laughter.
We gather against the raging onset.
A killing edge formed between tide and shore.
We are many swallowed and few returned.
They are waiting for us, whom we adore,
There are mistakes some fear we can’t unlearn.
In spite of our current plight, we press on,
Surviving each day till the next new dawn.

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